The Only Person in the World
by Eienvine
Summary: She often thought, only partly jokingly, that he was the only person in the world she understood. One-shot, future fic.


I wrote this once, a long time ago, because I wanted someone to have written an Alcatraz vs. the Evil Librarians story and I could never find that anyone had, so I decided I would have to do it myself. But I never had a place to publish until now, when suddenly and without warning, Al became a category on this site. So here it is.

. . . . . .

When she got home, the ground floor was empty and dark. She'd arrived too late for dinner; sometimes he waited and sometimes he got hungry and ate without her, and clearly this was one of the latter nights.

So she climbed the stairs, heading toward the study. Ever since he'd decided to write his autobiography, he'd spent nearly every night in that room, hunched over an archaic typewriter (a compromise between his love of computers and the Nalhallan love of pen and paper), pounding out his life story. The task made him somber, but knowing people still believed the lies about him made him worse, so she said nothing when he came out of the study tired and quiet.

The study was empty but a light was burning, and on the desk next to the typewriter sat his unfinished manuscript. She reached toward it but then paused, reflecting that he hadn't offered to show it to her yet so maybe he didn't want her to see it. She was interested, of course, but she hadn't pressed the matter. It had been a grueling few weeks of training with the other knights, and she usually came home too exhausted to strong-arm him into doing something he didn't want to do . . . and somewhere in the back of her mind she felt unwilling to do it. She still felt the weight and pull of the vows that she had made—to cherish and to serve, to see him through the good times and the bad. And because these were not merely words that she had said but words that she _felt_, with a fierceness that still astonished her, she was trying, in her way, to be understanding and patient. Suddenly she understood why her implacable mother would so often let her father get away with his latest nonsense.

But now here his pages were, left out for anyone to find—surely he would have put them away if they were as secret as she'd been thinking—and she was undeniably curious. After a moment's hesitation, she picked up the last few pages in the pile and began to read.

It was the end of their first adventure, the infiltration of the local library, and it was all so ridiculous—rutabagas, Gaks, and every chapter beginning with some completely unrelated digression about mockingbirds or Switzerland—that she had to smile; it was so like him.

Then she came to the last page, the page still in the typewriter, and noticed he'd left off in the middle of a word, as though distracted or unwilling to finish.

_For some reason, all the danger — all the threats — I'd been through during the last few days hadn't felt as disturbing to me as the knowledge that my mother lived. And th_

Her brow furrowed in sympathy. Shasta had her reasons, they all knew that now, for giving up her son, pretending not to be his mother, and treating him coldly all his life, but it must have been a horrible discovery for a 13-year-old foster kid. No wonder he'd needed to take a break from writing.

She glanced up and noticed that the curtains to the balcony were fluttering gently and the door was open. So that was where he was. She cursed silently—she really was terrible at this sort of thing—but she knew something had to be done, knew that he worked through things much better if he was able to talk them out, so she went onto the balcony to find him.

She almost didn't see him at first. He was in the shadow of the house, leaning against the stone wall, hands sunk deep in his pockets. His eyes, which always looked younger without the Oculatory lenses, were staring unseeingly out at the dark yard below. She stood awkwardly near him for a few moments, looking for the right words to say, and eventually came up with "You seem upset." Not perfect, but not her worst attempt at starting a conversation either.

He shrugged, not looking toward her, and she shuffled her feet and tried again. "That must have been tough, finding out Shasta was your mom."

Then he did turn toward her. "You read it?"

"You left it out," she retorted, realizing only after she'd spoken that his tone had been amused, not annoyed.

"I know," he said. "I've just been surprised that you haven't read it sooner." She could almost believe, as he lightly joked with her, that everything was okay, but she could see his lingering sorrow in the slump of his shoulders. Nine years as his bodyguard had taught her well how to read his moods, and he'd always been good at reading hers, leading to a sort of unity and accord that would have surprised anyone who knew the short-tempered knight when she was young. She often thought, only partly jokingly, that he was the only person in the world she understood. And right then she understood that he was being haunted by the ghosts of his past.

She wanted to say something comforting but she hadn't the foggiest idea where to start. She wished the Fleshstone in her neck would let her tap into other knights' empathy so that she could produce that perfect turn of phrase that would make everything better and gently lift him from his current mood. But she was stuck with her own feelings for a guide, and in the end she said simply, "You're not your childhood."

He looked at her.

"You had a crappy start," she continued. "I can't imagine growing up alone, then finding out my mother has been there the whole time, being such a jerk that I would have been better off if she'd never been part of my life."

A tired smile spread across his face. "Is this supposed to make me feel better?"

"But then you found your family, and you found friends, and you found your purpose," she pressed forward. "And I think that far more important than where you come from is where you choose to go. And you chose to fight for what's right and save the world, even though it doesn't even know it needs saving."

"I know," he said, exhaling loudly. "It's just—some things that happen to you when you're a kid, they seem to stick with you way longer than they should."

"You think I don't know that?" she demanded. "I became a knight because something my mom said to me as a kid convinced me I'd never be good enough for her if I didn't." He was the only person in the world who knew that about her. "And however your life started, now you've got fame and fortune, and family and friends, and . . . me." She cast her eyes down, not in an attempt to be demure but because she didn't know where to look. One would think three months of marriage would have made her better at showing affection, and maybe it had, but she definitely still had a long way to go.

But apparently it worked for him, because he finally pushed himself away from the wall to look full on at her. "Yeah, I do have you, don't I?" he asked with a half smile.

"And you'll always have me," she said, finally bringing her eyes up to meet his, and the last bit of tightness that'd been hovering around his face melted away. In one fluid movement he stepped forward and put his arms around her and pressed his lips to her hair, leaving her wondering why the feeling of him under her fingers always made her feel so safe, despite the fact that she was the one who'd be fighting if they were ever attacked. Maybe the feeling of safety came from knowing that when the fight was over, he'd be waiting there to hold her like this. She didn't much mind this one thing she'd conceded to girly-ness—all right, maybe there were several girly things she did now, really; they mostly all involved him.

"I've been kind of a jerk lately, haven't I?" he said against her hair.

"Kind of," she agreed.

He sighed. "I'm sorry. I feel like this has to be done, and some of it's really fun, but some of it I'd rather not think about again."

"Ask me for help," she suggested. "I was there for most of it."

He chuckled. "Are you sure? It's going to mention how you went from my hard-nosed bodyguard to my hard-nosed wife. Might make you seem kind of sappy."

"Well, now I definitely have to help, to make sure you don't make me look bad." She pretended to sound annoyed, but all the while she was tightening her hold around him and breathing in his scent. "Anyway, the point is, you don't need to feel bad about the past, because isn't the present so much better?" And maybe it was the result of a lifetime of assuming no one would ever fall in love with an ill-tempered knight, but she found herself anxious about his answer.

"Yes," he laughed, placing another kiss on the top of her head. "Much better. A million times better. Better than I ever hoped for."

She was glad her face was hidden against his chest so he didn't see her goofy smile. When she was sure her face was under control again, she pulled away from his embrace and took his hand. "Come on, then. We've got your autobiography to write."

He squeezed the hand holding his. "Thanks," he said. She looked back at him, about to deflect the gratitude—something she was still uncomfortable receiving—but before she could, he added with a smirk, "for not beating me up when you found out I was writing about you."

The only person in the world she understood, and the only person in the world who understood her. "Any time," she said, and hand-in-hand they walked inside to write their story.


End file.
